Summary: Ambitious rework of a crap piece.
It’s always in the last place you look.
A dusty black whole thorns my side.
Haven’t seen what it is
or know how it feels,
don’t know what I miss.
Turning over stones in my brain,
looking for keys to my dreams.
Scribble thoughts down,
no spell check
and the emotions come and go, a seesaw.
Future holds brittle new promises,
as faded projected images cloud my sleep,
black and white Polaroid memories provide consistent release.
Sometimes a smile is for show,
a natural smile is easy to know,
it’s not under control.
In the twilight of a working day,
tired through laziness.
‘How’s your day been?’
New subject material is required
as evening tea is served.
People talk around me as I search for words.
The words that will make them weep, or leap;
My reflection is changing,
the coast is always changing.
Admiring my haircut.
You can’t feel beautiful until someone tells you.
Do butterflies know they are beautiful?
Do they care at all?
I’d like to tell them one day but don’t know how
and what for.
Where’s the last place?